Inverted Aubade for my Scopophiliac


What thorny impotence has steeped you
into this kink? So this is how you want me-

veiled, stripped? For what boils you is leering
at an exposed sliver of waist, a birthmark

that protrudes from a naked heel. Your cool
fetish is to slip me your card and your keys,

promising me I can take what I want, go
where I please, while you bug my bodice.

Is this what inflames your collar? Perching
the circuitry of your mineral eye across

the street from my place of work? Leaving
recipes in my sock drawer? Does it stiffen

your iris to gaze at me molting from the puce
dress you gave me on our anniversary,

poking your head out from behind the face
of a week old newspaper? I would offer you

the chance to taste my tunic, to weigh me
on the marble slab of your lap, but I’m afraid

for you contact is as thrilling as a wart. You
covet not to pet me but to collect another

pet, to have my aroma pulled over you
without having to accede to the oil of touch.

A ribald murmuration, you demand for my
no to mean yes, use the words probe

and investigate as lurid dalliance, a skein
of surveillance tapes uncoiling,

lavender scented creams applied to cloaked
domains. You pretend to be absent when

I wipe the soil from my neck, tell me this
is the last time, it’s over, until tomorrow

night when you return to peek from behind
the bushes in my front yard. I’ll leave

the bedroom window abreast, because your
paranoia is foreplay, the tight clamp of your

taloned pupil peeping through a bramble
of firewalls keeps us both panting.  And I’ll

complain that you give me no space, but
it would dismantle me if you ceased to feel

me up with wire taps and seize my passwords
because you are certain I’ll find you milksop

and stray. Would it tingle you to know it is our
safe word? If you ever came to corner me,

to blow  in my ear, would you know how
to unwrap me? Would you be sated? My darling

devourer, trust the explicit kisses that I press into
your monitor are for you and you alone. Now

start the tape. Hold yourself, pulsing and firm.
If you promise not to finish too soon I promise

to share with you every curve and crater
of my most lambent moon as it abates.


Vincent Toro is a poet and playwright living and teaching in the Bronx and a 2014 Poet’s House Emerging Poet’s Fellow.

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